


The Bus Ride Home

by Zaxal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap, Flirting, Holding Hands, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: The bus ride from Tadfield to London is long, and an angel and a demon have a much-needed conversation.





	The Bus Ride Home

The bus ride home was lulling in its near-normalcy. Not that Crowley was one for taking the bus _at all_ — public transit was often too crowded, too unpredictable, and (like most human inventions) the good ideas behind it got all caught and mangled in the execution — but the hum of a vehicle, the subtle dips and rises as it rolled along the road were all very familiar to him.

This was normal, too: Aziraphale so near to him physically but miles away in thought.

It was impossible to know where the angel’s head was. The burnt-out husk of his bookshop, the Tadfield Air Base where Armageddon had stopped short, or Heaven which was surely preparing for… something.

Hell was as well, but Crowley did his best to avoid thinking about what Hell was preparing for. It was something he’d perfected over the millenia on Earth.

Earth which… should have ended. If not today, then in the very near future, when Heaven and Hell turned it into a battleground to settle a petty score. Now, Earth would keep going, and Aziraphale was confident that this was God’s divine Plan, but what if—

Ah, but ‘what if’s had caused more than enough grief for Crowley, hadn’t they?

“We must be careful going forward.”

Crowley lifted his head. “More careful than we have been, you mean.” Indiscretions of intimacy and friendship, their beloved Arrangement that had turned from convenience to a necessary part of their lives. His life, anyway.

“Even more than that.” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap, and Crowley watched his fingers idly. “Agnes Nutter had one last prophecy, and while I can’t be certain, I’m fairly sure it was meant for us.”

 _Us._ Oh, Crowley wanted to wrap himself around that word. Two letters gave something to read between, to hope for even when he’d done more than enough hoping today for the rest of eternity.

“Crowley, are you listening?”

“Mm,” he hummed, raising his eyes to Aziraphale’s face. The panic of losing him was too real, too raw.

He’d have to do it again. Crowley tried not to dwell on it, but it was one of those truths that, once acknowledged, could hardly be put back on the shelf and forgotten about. They’d gotten too close. They’d stood against Satan, yes, but also in defiance of both Heaven and Hell. They’d chosen the side of humanity, and immortal beings had long memories. The safest thing to do was to part ways, go back to seeing one another every couple of centuries; the happiest accidents.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to move his shop.

Crowley hadn’t decided yet where he would go.

“S’been a long day, angel,” he said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “But I’m afraid it’s not over yet.”

Crowley lay his head against the back of the seat. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Aziraphale nodded, and recited softly, “‘When all is said and all is done, you must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough, you will be playing with fire.’”

“Everything’s hardly said and done if more’s to happen,” Crowley began, trying not to smile when Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes which narrowed in a squint.

“Crowley.”

“Fine, fine,” he relented. “‘Choose your faces wisely.’ Can only really mean one thing.”

“Quite.”

“Bit weird, thinking of Heaven wanting revenge enough to destroy you.” His chest clutched tightly around the fear of loss, but if they’d been left a warning, then Nutter had surely seen that they could succeed.

Aziraphale nodded absently, gaze falling away to the seat in front of him. “I could not have more clearly abandoned my duties. And stood side-by-side with a demon against the war Heaven wanted.”

“Still. Used to, they’d just toss you out for that.” The memory of falling was as stark as if it’d happened yesterday. _What if—_ And he had chosen, hadn’t he, to fall instead of whatever alternative the irate Archangels had cooked up for what they saw as a rebellion?

God’s mercy, if it could be called that, was giving him the option to survive at all, only to bring him back around to this.

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled. “I… wouldn’t be surprised if this was entirely Gabriel’s doing. He doesn’t have the authority to make an angel Fall.”

“Never did,” Crowley agreed. “His methods of persuasion, though — hard to argue with.”

“And your side?”

“They were never my side,” Crowley said, feeling somehow safe to speak candidly here. “We happened to have one thing in common: we weren’t wanted up there anymore. Where else was I supposed to go?” He cleared his throat. “But, yes. I suppose Hell will come after me sooner rather than later. Averting the war, holding hands with an angel, not to mention cocking up and misplacing the Antichrist in the first place.” He chuckled dryly. “Letting him yell at his dad.”

Crowley rolled his head back, staring at the ceiling if only to be staring somewhere other than Aziraphale. He didn’t see the angel shift in his seat or the way he glanced down at where Crowley’s arm lay on the arm rest before pointedly looking away.

He certainly felt as a hand slid over his own.

Crowley felt every hair on his body stand on end, his breathing shuddering in his chest. Aziraphale’s fingers twitched, but Crowley moved in an instant, rolling his arm so that they were palm-to-palm. Aziraphale’s fingers slid neatly between his own, and Crowley’s heart raced.

“Angel,” he murmured like a prayer.

Aziraphale hummed for a moment before musing, “If one is to be condemned for something, shouldn’t they at least get to experience it, first?”

Crowley had nothing clever to say and so chose to say nothing at all as the countryside rolled by. He took long moments to get accustomed to the feel of Aziraphale’s hand in his while not daring to look down lest it break the spell.

“Are you quite all right?”

He swallowed thickly. “Yeah. ‘M fine.”

“I can let go.”

“Please, don’t.”

The reaction was so sudden it took even him by surprise, but Aziraphale took it in gracious stride as he did most things. “Very well. When do you want to, um. Switch?”

The mostly-empty bus would be the best place. Heaven and Hell were likely still scrambling about, trying to figure out what happened next. “When you’re ready.”

The heat from Aziraphale’s palm turned cool, soothing. It ached in a way that was unknowable to anyone but a demon being given a miracle. He knew his own hand would burn the angel, but Aziraphale only gripped him tighter, and in the blink of an eye and quick twist of the world, the bodies had changed places.

Crowley turned his head to see Aziraphale struggling for a moment behind the glasses, brow still wrinkled.

“Everything _looks—_ ”

“Slitted pupils, angel.”

Aziraphale tutted, “Ah-ah. Mustn’t call me that.”

“And you mustn’t tut,” Crowley said, his voice prim as he sat up straight in the seat. “Not if we’re to get this right.”

“Do I really sound like that?” Aziraphale was staring at him, and Crowley turned to meet the black sheen of his glasses.

“I do hope so,” he said, imitating the cadence and accent he’d heard for the entirety of human history. “If not, we could be in serious trouble.”

Aziraphale huffed and slouched in his seat, legs sprawling. His hand remained resolutely curled around Crowley’s. When he next spoke, Crowley knew his own voice. “If you need a place to stay, my flat’s big enough for the both of us until you can get the shop rebuilt.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley hummed, feigning hesitation. “We could get into a great deal of trouble, if anyone noticed—”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “I don’t know how much more trouble we could possibly get in, angel.”

Of all the things in the universe, Crowley could never have been prepared for that word to cross Aziraphale’s lips, soft and fond and nearly reverent.

Heat flushed across Crowley’s face, and beneath his shoulder blades, he could _feel_ his wings itching to burst free to stand on end, every feather outstretched. An electric feeling surged through him, tingling from his head down to his toes, and it was a wonder he managed to keep from making any undignified noises even as Aziraphale looked at him with concern.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, dragging his thumb along the side of Crowley’s hand, softly caressing, and how, _how_ was he supposed to do a single damned— _blessed_ thing?

“I—” he tried, but the words died in his throat as the enormity of everything slammed into him all at once.

“You’re trembling.”

He was. Save for the anchoring point where Aziraphale’s hand connected to his, his borrowed body was shaking. Worse, he could feel beyond it, the essence of his being — the soul, one might say, if demons had souls — seeking purchase, a sturdy foundation.

“My dear, please say something.”

Crowley had faced down the Lord of Hell today, and it was Aziraphale’s concern that he wished most to hide from.

“I can’t…”

“Oh, you can, surely.” Aziraphale’s other hand patted his arm.

Crowley shook his head, “I can’t lose you again.”

Aziraphale moved to extract himself, but Crowley held on all the tighter. “You were _gone_ ,” he said, trying to impart how it had been, walking into the burning shop, everything that had been safe and warm and _Aziraphale_ only to find that he’d been discorporated. “And there was nothing… _Nothing_ I could’ve done. Except give in, join the Legion, and hope against hope to meet you on the battlefield and somehow talk you into running away again.” He tried to smile and knew how it must look, fragile and fractured and empty. “Wouldn’t’ve worked, would it?”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” Aziraphale gave his hand another comforting squeeze. “I was always rather, unfortunately, obstinate.” He leaned close, and Crowley bowed his head instinctively, letting Aziraphale kiss his brow as if they’d done this a hundred times. “It needn’t come to that, now.”

He lifted his head again, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. He missed his shades, then; how they hid his eyes, his easily-wounded expression. “No,” he agreed. “Instead, I’ll— I’ll go to America, maybe. Prime real estate for a demon, that is.”

“America?” Panic pitched in Aziraphale’s voice. “Why?”

“I did just say it would be a good spot to cause some mischief—”

“Why are you _leaving_?!” Aziraphale demanded, now clutching tightly at Crowley as if he was one to suddenly vanish.

Crowley didn’t dare to pull away. “Heaven will forgive. Eventually. Once they think they can’t destroy you. But only… only if they think you’ve fallen back into line.”

“I’ve fooled them well enough for 6000 years.”

“We were not who we are, now, even a dozen years ago. There’s only one way—”

“Poppycock.”

Crowley deflected, “Watch your fucking language—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly. “You may leave if you like, but it won’t be in my defense or for my safety.”

Crowley’s eyes fell to where Aziraphale gripped him, almost familiar save for the disorienting switch of their bodies. “I don’t want to,” he said almost petulantly.

“Then don’t.”

It was so simple as an answer, but Crowley felt it down to the marrow of his bones. “You’re sure?”

Aziraphale lifted the hand gripping Crowley’s arm, cold fingers sliding up his cheek. He was led, tamer than any of God’s creatures, until his forehead nudged against Aziraphale’s, and his eyes slid closed.

It answered the question more eloquently than any words Aziraphale could have said.


End file.
